The Untouchables
by Space Cowgirl
Summary: 25 years after Bruce Wayne hangs up his cape, Gotham City is in dire need of heroes. It finds them in the superhero team The Untouchables. BrucexSelina, HarleyxJoker, Barbara GordonxOC
1. The Inferno

**Disclaimer**: I don't own DC Comics, and thus none of their characters.  Batman, Barbara Gordon, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Terry McGuiness, The Joker, Nightwing and all other DC characters belong to someone else.  Not me.  Too bad, really.  I'm not making a profit off of Bob Kane's fine creation.

I DID create the characters comprising the team the Untouchables, as well as Daniel Thorne, Art Berg, Dr. Ronald Prescott, Nightmare, Shock, Kara West and Alex Luthor.  They're mine, so please ask permission before you use them in your own stories.  I'm not stingy, but if they show up in fanfiction without permission I will do something quite bad to the author, like hit them over the head with a Vienna sausage for several hours.

**Author notes**: Just your standard "next generation" type of DC story.  My first DCU fic, so please be somewhat gentle.  Focuses mainly on the Batman universe.  I owe my inspiration to Frank Miller's peerless graphic novel _The Dark Knight Returns_ (four readings and counting.)  I do hope you'll enjoy my little romp through the DCU, torturing characters and ignoring established continuity left and right.  It was a lot of fun to write…hope it's fun to read.

**Author Disclaimer: Outside of avid readings of several _Batman_ graphic novels and obsessive viewing of the cartoon (TAS and _Beyond_), I know LITTLE TO NOTHING about the canon DC Universe.  I'm a Marvel/Vertigo fan, and because of my lack of geeky trivia knowledge regarding mainstream DC I pretty much had to make this story AU.  I also had to make up all of the geography ect. in the scenes which take place in Bludhaven.  If you see something you think is "wrong" (unless it's glaring, like Batman fighting crime in a tutu and whistling '****Dixie****'), please don't email me about it, and go on and on about how stupid I am.  I really don't care.  Really.  Don't.  Care.  Thank you.  **

**AU notes**: Several main points of the story are AU.  Really more what you'd call a mishmash of continuity than an actual AU.  Bear with me…  ::ahem::

-Takes place 25 years in the future.  Gotham City (for those of you with visual minds) is more _Batman Beyond_ than _DKR_.

-Bruce Wayne is about the same age he is in _DKR_ (I believe it was 55.)  All other ages, unless stated, are ambiguous.

-Terry McGuiness is the new Batman.  All other _Batman Beyond_ continuity is ignored.

-Cassandra Cain was never Batgirl

-Circumstances outlined in _The Killing Joke_ regarding Barbara Gordon have changed.  You will just have to read and see how much…

-Tim Drake's gone.  No mention of him will be made.  He's irritating.  Get over it.

-Alfred has passed away.  Sad, but realistic, unless Alfred was really an immortal and has gone away with his friends Duncan and…uh…that guy Christopher Lambert played.

Everything else will explain itself in the course of the story…unless I get too much sugary food in me and start writing unintelligible rambling.  Then it won't make any sense at all.  If that happens please email me saying so.  Or just hit me a sharp blow to the head.

**Summary**: 25 years after Bruce Wayne has hung up his cape, Gotham City is in dire need of heroes.  It finds them in the Untouchables.

**Archiving**: Yes.  You can take my fanfic and love it and stroke it and call it George for all I care.  Just PLEASE email me BEFORE you archive it and let me know where it's going.  (I may not be thrilled to find it on HotBatSmut.com, but you never know.)

**Feedback**: Reviews and constructive criticism is always appreciated, and it may make me squeal and jump around.  Flames will be watched for a long time while the author exclaims "FIRE!  FIRE!  FIRE!" in a psychotic tone.  Then, flamer, I will probably hunt down those near and dear to you and kill them all.  …  Just kidding.  I think.

**Rating**: PG-13 for language and violent situations.  A little blood, a few instances of the f-word.  Basically what you'd see in your average Lindsay Lohan film these days…

---

THE UNTOUCHABLES 

**Unhappy is the land that is in need of heroes.**

**                                                                        -**Bertolt Brecht

---

**Gotham****City******

**25 Years Hence**

Gotham City Hall exploded at approximately 12:02 p.m., the height of the lunch rush. 

The blast demolished the new James Gordon Criminal Justice wing and killed fifty-two people outright.  Debris blew hovercraft out of the sky and the cloud of dust caused a multiple-craft crash, which resulted in a street-traffic pileup that was even worse.  Eventually, firefighters and EMTs would pull nearly two hundred bodies from the wreckage of one of Gotham's oldest buildings. 

Around three hours after the blast, an old-style VHS cassette arrived at the Gotham City Police Department's main headquarters, earmarked for Police Commissioner Daniel Thorne.  On the tape, a group of urban terrorists known simply as Anarchy claimed responsibility for the bombing and demanded that the mayor, district attorney and Commissioner Thorne himself vacate their positions and turn the rule of Gotham over to the gang.  Otherwise, Anarchy would begin systematically destroying the city's landmarks.  Hundreds more would die.

Commissioner Thorne opened his bottom desk drawer and poured himself a generous shot of bourbon before contacting the GCPD's SWAT team. 

---

Barbara Gordon sat in her darkened loft apartment and watched the city hall burn, it's flames brighter than the midday sun.  One of the last stone-and-mortar buildings in the city, it had stood for almost a hundred and fifty years, a testament of the sometimes hard-to-find justice that existed in Gotham.

Barbara watched while the death toll began to mount.  Fifteen years ago she would have been scrambling for Batman, the Justice League, anyone she could help apprehend the criminals.  But that was then and this was now.  Barbara sat impassively and waited.

The mayor was on TV now, microphones shoved into his red, sweaty face, trying to explain what had happened.  She snorted with disgust.  If no one had been able to stop the bombers before it happened, they sure as hell wouldn't be able to after the fact.

Finally, one of her many phone lines rang.  Barbara checked which extension it was out of habit, although she knew only one person would be calling her now.  Her contact in the GCPD.  She picked up.  "This is the Oracle." 

"It's Cassie, Oracle."  Barbara rubbed her numb legs once before speaking.

"Go ahead."  Cassandra Cain spoke.  She'd been a promising gymnast at one point, and under Barbara's tutelage a superb detective.  Now she was a GCPD beat cop, and Barbara's best ally inside. 

"It was a small bomb, suitcase-sized.  Bomb squad doesn't know how it got past the detectors.  They're betting plastic casing with some unknown chemical compound inside that was able to fool the scanners.  Plastic-based, maybe, some sort of artificial polymer." 

"Interesting," said Barbara, already typing furiously in her database.  "What else?"

"Anarchy doesn't have the brainpower to put together something like that," said Cassie.  "It's a solid bet they had an outside contractor." 

"That's all?"

"That's all, Oracle."  Barbara's lightning-fast fingers began accessing bank records, criminal records--anything she could use to tie Anarchy and their contractor together.

"Then get off the line.  I don't want to be traced."

"Good luck," said Cassie.

"One more thing," said Barbara.  "Has you-know-who been snooping around yet?"

"Yeah, the boy in tights was down here," said Cassie.  "Came and went about two hours ago."  Barbara glanced at the television again.  The fires were out, only wisps and clouds of gray smoke rising from the rubble. 

"Keep your eyes open," said Barbara, and hung up.  She would research the information that would help the police catch Anarchy and the bomber, just like the old days.  Unlike the old days, once Barbara had the information, she would also sell it to the highest bidder.  That voice that was always in the back of her mind whispered she was contemptible, putting a price on human life.  Depraved, mass-murdering human life, but all the same…  Barbara shut her thoughts off and concentrated on her computers.

It usually helped to shut out the whispers, at least for a little while.

---

"This is _completely_ unacceptable!"  Daniel Thorne decided that he may have been the youngest police commissioner in Gotham City's history, but he didn't have to put up with being yelled at by a lawyer in a bad suit.

"Art, if you'll calm the hell down, we can talk about this like two reasonable men."  District Attorney Berg, aka Art to his friend and sometimes adversary Thorne, slammed his palms on Thorne's desk.

"I have two hundred dead, a public in hysteria and a city council howling for my blood!  _I will not calm down!_"

Thorne sighed.  "We're doing everything we can, Art, and then some.  Just be glad the death toll was as low as it was, and be glad that the damned gangs haven't carried through on their threat to level more of our fair city!" 

"I find it hard to believe you can't even find the people responsible!" 

"That's because the people responsible are buried under twenty tons of rubble right now, Art!"  Thorne pressed the point between his eyes with two fingers.  "They suicided, right along with the rest of the victims."  Art slumped down in the chair across from Thorne's desk, putting his head in his hands.

"I'm a dead man," he muttered.  "I'm up for re-election next year..."  Thorne was about to make a comment on Berg's priorities when his intercom buzzed.

"Commissioner?"

"What is it, Judy?" 

"A letter just arrived for you, special delivery."  Thorne pressed the button to release his door and his secretary came in, handing him a thick envelope.

"What's that?" asked Berg.

"If I knew, I'd tell you," said Thorne, ripping the package with his letter opener.  A thick printout tumbled out, letters and numbers in what looked like some kind of code.  There was also a photograph of a slim young man in glasses, holding a serious expression.  Thorne turned the photograph over.

"There's writing on the back," he said.  It was scrawled in a block hand: HE CAN HELP YOU, and signed with an enigmatic O.  Thorne felt the blood in his body drop several degrees, but he skillfully hid the change from Berg. 

"What's all this?" said Berg, rifling through the printout.  Thorne looked at it and then back at the picture.

"I don't know."  He turned the picture so Berg could see the face.  "But apparently he does." 

---

Nighttime had fallen over the city, but Barbara didn't notice.  She rarely did, her windows covered with black paper and taped over securely to prevent any natural light from coming in.  Her accident years ago had left her with debilitating migraines as well as paralyzed from the waist down, and she had finally learned that keeping herself in the dark was the only viable cure.

Barbara waited for Cassie to call and confirm that Commissioner Thorne had received the report Barbara had complied on the chemical compound that had made the bomb, as well as the man who could direct them to the sorcerer who had dreamed it up. 

After nearly seven hours of searching, Barbara had had to admit defeat for herself.  Whoever Anarchy had on their payroll was slippery, shy, and good at covering their tracks.  The huge sum Anarchy had paid to their outside helper was funneled into dummy account after dummy account, finally bringing Barbara full circle without her ever being able to find the real depository of the money.

Whoever this person was, Barbara concluded, they were almost as smart as her. 

Her phone rang, and Barbara saw it was Cassie's line.  She picked it up. 

"This is the Oracle."

"We meet at last...as it were."  Barbara's hand gripped the phone hard.  A male voice, not Cassie's.  Still young, but raspy from cigarettes and carrying the weight of authority.

"Who is this?"

"I should ask you the same question, Oracle.  You know, I heard stories about you, from old Jim Gordon, but I figured he was going senile.  Wasn't until tonight, when I opened that package, that I really believed it."  Barbara let out a breath at the mention of her father.

"Commissioner Thorne."

"So you're as good as they all say.  I'm gratified."

"You can't trace this line," said Barbara, more aggressively than she'd intended.  Thorne chuckled.

"I wouldn't dream of insulting you like that."  He let the silence sit for a moment, and then spoke again.  "Don't worry about Officer Cain.  She did her best to keep your secret from me, but I appealed to her better instincts."

"Cassie can't be bribed."

"Did I say that?  I'm not in the habit of taking or giving them, Oracle," said Thorne sharply.  "Turn on your television."  Barbara touched the remote built into the arm of her wheelchair.  "Channel 7," said Thorne.  Barbara clicked to the correct channel.

"What am I supposed to be...?"  She started to say "looking at", and then understood. 

"Once again, we warn you that this newscast contains graphic material that may not be appropriate for all viewers," said the female reporter.  Barbara could see the mayor's house in the background.  Hanging from the white porch columns were three bodies, illuminated almost obscenely in the glare of the police searchlights.

"I want to meet you," said Thorne.  "I want to talk to you, face to face." 

"Out of the question," said Barbara reflexively, before she could really think it over.  As the news camera panned over the gutted bodies of the mayor of Gotham and his family, she felt a roiling in her stomach, one she thought had died away years ago, after the accident.  After violence had lost any ability to shock her.

"I need help," said Thorne pleadingly.  "Two hundred people died today.  Anarchy just strung the mayor of Gotham up in the streets.  Batman..." he sucked in a breath.  "Batman was nowhere to be found."

"I'm not Batman's secretary," said Barbara coldly. 

"But you are someone who can help me stop these monsters."

"I gave you everything I have," said Barbara.  "Use the printout; it will lead you to Anarchy's contractor."

"That isn't good enough," said Thorne.  "I asked you nicely, Oracle.  Now I'm going to appeal to your sense of self-preservation, which, if I understood old Jimmy Gordon right, is highly developed." 

"I'm listening," said Barbara.

"Help me or I'll bring you in," said Thorne.  "You think you're invincible, but I'm willing to be that between the GCPD and Batman, we can track you down."

"Then you'd lose.  Batman is nothing," said Barbara with venom.

"Just think about it," said Thorne.  "I know a lot of inmates in the penal system who'd love to have a crack at the woman who put them there, Oracle."  The line clicked, and Barbara felt angry.  She was supposed to hang up on him.

---

As the police surrounded him, shining their flashlights into his face, the light refracting off his glasses to almost blind him, the boy considered how stupid they all were.

Yes, he had broken a window, climbed into someone's private property and was in the process of stealing several thousand dollar's worth of chemicals and equipment, but he wasn't a criminal.

Criminals did things for pedestrian reasons like money or power or simple kicks. 

Stefan Freze had a mission. 

"Hands up!" the cop in the lead shouted at him.  Stefan did as he said.  He wasn't stupid.  If these police who had cornered him didn't believe his protestations that he'd done nothing wrong, they weren't going to believe he wasn't armed.  Ending up bleeding on a cold cement floor would get him nowhere.

"Please don't hurt me," said Stefan softly. 

"Shut up," responded the arresting officer.  Stefan looked longingly back at the chemicals he had been about to take.  Now he'd have to find another warehouse, once he was bailed out.  And fast.  His supplies were getting low.  They were _always_ low. 

As Stefan was hustled into a police cruiser, he thought that if he was more like his father, things like this wouldn't be a problem.  But he wasn't, and now he was going to jail.  He'd have to tell his mother how he'd failed...again.  The cruiser took off and Stefan watched the lights of Gotham flow underneath him.  He decided that when he got out things would be different.  He was finally going to make his parents proud.

Stefan had a legacy within his grasp, and he was going to take it.

---

Of all the places he could be right now, sitting in front of a fuming Bruce Wayne was last on Terry McGuiness's list. 

"You're a disgrace," Wayne told him bluntly.  "I trained you to be a symbol of justice, of order, and this is what I get?!  The bodies of the mayor and his wife, their son and their dog _crucified on the __ten o'clock__ news?!_"

Terry tried to stay calm, to let Bruce vent his anger and take his scolding, but his rebellious streak wouldn't allow it.  "I can't be everywhere, Bruce!  I'm not Superman!"

"You're damn right you're not, McGuiness--in fact, that underpants-on-the-outside loony could probably do twice the job you did tonight with a lead-lined bag over his goddamn head!"

Terry's lips compressed into a thin line.  "Maybe if I'd had more than two minute's notice I could have done something!  Maybe if there weren't more gang members than actual citizens in this shithole of a city I could actually do some good!"  Bruce pointed a finger at Terry, his eyes blazing.  He was graying at the temples, and his frame was less broad than it was during his days as Batman, but he was still the most intimidating figure Terry had ever laid eyes on.

"No excuse, Terry, not from you!  You're Batman!  I chose you!  You're better than these animals!"  Terry exploded, standing up and getting into Bruce's face.

"You're right, Bruce, I'm Bat_man_!  Not the Bat League, not the Bat Society, the Bat_man_!  I'm one man, Bruce, and one man can't stem the tide from this cesspool!" 

Bruce glared at him.  He wasn't scolding any more, just angry.  "Shut up, McGuiness, if you know what's good for you.  I could have your street punk ass back in jail like that."  He snapped his fingers harshly. 

"Go ahead!" Terry dared him.  "See how long even this so-called law and order lasts without a Bat to keep it that way!"  Bruce deflated.  Terry knew he'd scored a point. 

"Just go home, Terry," Bruce said.  "And next time--if there is a next time--maybe you can try to be effectual enough to keep people from dying in mass quantities."  Terry muttered a curse under his breath and left, slamming the massive front door of Wayne Manor behind him with a strength that impressed even Bruce.

---

In his bedroom, Thomas Kyle Wayne listened to his father curse out Terry McGuiness, the new Batman.  Their screaming matches weren't infrequent, and Thomas took a perverse satisfaction each time a little more of the bond between the new Bat and the old crumbled.

After all, wasn't he Bruce's son?  Didn't he deserve more attention than some ex-delinquent in a dumb costume?

Thomas knew the answer was no.  His father would always be dedicated to Batman above all else.  He was a fanatic who worshipped on the altar of justice, and had no time for secular matters, like a family, or a son.

Thomas had grown up the child of a billionaire, with all the privileges and comforts that came with it.  He'd realized by the time he was thirteen that his father was Batman, and soon after that that he'd never succeed him.  It wasn't a matter of approval or disapproval on Bruce's part.  Thomas simply didn't rate enough on his scale to even be considered.

Thomas tried not to let the resentment eat at him, as he watched Bruce and Terry bond in the way he supposed his father had once bonded with Tim Drake and Jason Todd and Dick Grayson, but never with him.  The only comfort Thomas had was that some day the bonds would break, just has they had with Tim and Dick.  Or if he got really lucky, McGuiness might bite the dust.

Because of this fact, Thomas felt his slow-burning hatred towards Terry ease a little each time Terry and Bruce had it out.  McGuiness would be gone, eventually, and Bruce would have to face the fact that Thomas was all he had left.  He'd _have_ to accept that his son was ready and willing to take on the mantel of the Dark Knight.  He wouldn't have a choice.

Then Thomas would have what was rightfully his.

---

Barbara couldn't remember the last time she'd been outside--she supposed it was close to six months ago.  A uniformed police escort helped her into the handicapped van, and she caught sight of her reflection in the window.  Her hair was going gray again--she made a mental note to add Clairol 39 to her next shopping list.

Barbara didn't know why she cared about how she looked--a little premature gray was nothing to get hysterical over.  Besides, she wasn't trying to impress Daniel Thorne--if anything, it should be the other way around.

The edifices of Gotham flew past Barbara as the van's powerful engines propelled it along the flying lanes.  She looked down, noting the city still looked gray and unwelcoming even from this god's-eye view.  Maybe there had been something to Thorne's plea, after all.

"Ma'am, we're here," said the driver as they touched down on the parking pad at the downtown division.  The huge building was home to county lockup as well as Gotham's largest precinct.  Barbara allowed herself to be helped into her wheelchair and coddled down the ramp.  She felt wind whip her face on the high platform.  The same sensation as gliding along on a grappler cable.  Or freefalling.

Barbara shivered.  "Can we go inside, please?"  An officer wheeled her in, even though she was completely capable of moving herself.  Daniel Thorne was waiting just inside the doors.

"It's a pleasure, Oracle."  Barbara looked him over.  He was more intense than on television, with black hair and burning dark eyes that missed nothing.  The predatory cop's gaze, best when rendered in blue or brown. 

"Call me Barbara," she said.  Thorne's eyes widened slightly, but he did nothing to betray her in front of the dozen or so officers gathered in the stairwell.

"Let's talk in my office, Barbara."

"I'd rather go to the holding cells," Barbara said.  "I saw on the morning logs that you brought in Stefan Freze for B&E." 

"You said he could help us," said Thorne, searching her for a reaction.  Barbara didn't give him one.

"I assume you brought me down here to interrogate him.  That is the 'help' you were talking about, right?"

"Call it a test," said Thorne.  Barbara glared at him.

"I don't test well."  Thorne hit the button for the lift and wheeled her in, cutting them off from prying ears.

"Cut the crap, Gordon.  After last night, we need each other."  Barbara swiveled to look at him.

"I just have one question, Daniel."

"What's that?"

"What makes you think I give one rat's ass about this city?  It's a hell on earth and nothing I do can change that."  Thorne looked down at her, his eyes almost sad.

"Because I believe there's something better than what's outside these walls.  I can see it but I can't make it happen on my own.  But you did.  You and Batman."  Barbara drew in her breath.

"I don't like hero worship."

"You have to help me, Barbara, because you still believe it too.  Otherwise, you would have folded up the Oracle tent years ago."  Barbara dropped her gaze to her hands.  She wondered if Thorne believed his own bullshit.  She hoped he did, because she was risking everything.

"Take me to see Freze," was all she said, not making Thorne any promises.

---

"I don't understand.  I haven't done anything wrong," said Stefan, sitting with his hands folded.  He refused to look at Barbara, his blue eyes boring a hole in the tabletop just in front of his face.

"I'm not saying you did, Stefan," said Barbara. 

"Then I don't understand why I'm being detained."  Stefan didn't know who this wheelchair-bound woman was, but she wasn't a cop.  That made him nervous in ways he couldn't entirely identify.  She looked like someone who knew a lot of secrets.  Maybe even his...

Stefan blinked once.  He was letting himself get paranoid.  Paranoia, his father had always reminded him, was the downfall of any brilliant man.  Stefan forced himself to look the woman in the face, and made his voice steady.

"I'd like to speak to a lawyer."  The woman's mouth quirked once, and then settled back into its thin line. 

"I can arrange that, Stefan.  Or maybe we won't have to get lawyers involved at all."  Stefan paused, weighed the new information.  He had been right--they wanted him for something more than a simple robbery.  Who could have possibly let his secret into the open?  He had no contact with anyone, save his mother.

"I work alone," he said, deciding to nip the redhead's idea in the bud.  "I couldn't give you anyone bigger than me even if I wanted to."  The woman let out a harsh laugh. 

"You're a smart kid, Stefan, but you stink at this tough-guy act."  She reached into the saddlebag on her wheelchair and produced a thick sheaf of papers.  Stefan drew his hands away when she placed it on the table.  "I'll make this simple--you tell me what this is and who made it and I'll get you out of here."

"You can't do that," said Stefan.  "I may stink at the tough-guy act, but you suck at pretending to be a cop."  She laughed a real laugh this time, the fine lines around her eyes folding in on each other.

"Did my sparkling wit give me away?"  She lowered her voice.  "Seriously, now.  I'm not a cop, you're right.  But I am well-connected to the system.  GCPD doesn't want to muck around with a kid like you.  They have bigger fish to fry right now."  She pushed the papers closer to him.  "And if you help fry 'em, you'll be free to go."  Stefan searched her face, as his father had taught him.  Victor Freze said good men's eyes always betrayed them if they were lying.  The red-haired woman's betrayed nothing.  She was telling the truth.

Or she wasn't particularly good. 

Stefan unclasped his fingers, stiff from gripping each other with nervousness, and took the printout.  He could tell right away it was some kind of chemical compound.  He pushed his glasses up his nose and flipped the pages quickly.  "This is highly unstable."

"It's plastic-based explosives, works like napalm," the woman said.  "What we want to know is who made it."  Stefan slowed his rapid page-turning, his fingers tracing the lines of chemical makeup.

"Only a few people I know of would have the technical expertise to manufacture this.  Most of them are dead." 

"How old are you, Stefan?" asked the woman suddenly.  Stefan blinked. 

"Nineteen."  She shook her head.

"To have such an intellect at that age.  We should all be so unlucky."  She placed her hand palm-down on the table.  "That said, if you don't put that mind to good use and come up with something a little more specific, I'm not going to be able to keep you out of the pokey."  Stefan felt sweat break out under his shirt and cursed silently.  He was behaving like a frightened child.  His father would be ashamed.

"There is...one person I know of.  Strictly in an academic sense, of course."  Stefan added the last because the person was a well-known terrorist bomb maker.  He didn't want anyone thinking _he'd_ associate with people like that. 

"Name," said the woman, leaning forward.  She looked almost excited. 

"No one knows his real name.  If you want to contact him you ask for Marionette." 

"Fitting...a puppet manipulated behind the scenes," said the woman.  She backed her chair away from the table.  "You did well, Stefan.  I'll talk to Commissioner Thorne."  She left, and Stefan sat back in his chair, wondering what exactly he had just done.

---

In the center of the morass that was Gotham City, an eye of the storm existed.  Inside it's smooth steel walls and across acres of lab-grown grass, the city's elite and privileged youth pursued their higher education. 

Once a small city college with meager funding and a less-than-prestigious faculty, Gotham State University had grown in the last forty years to the premiere college on the East Coast.  Thanks largely to generous funding from it's most successful alumni, Bruce Wayne, it now boasted a campus larger than some small towns and the best faculty, staff and facilities money could buy.

GSU was often described as an oasis from the city that surrounded it, and it returned the favor by being largely oblivious to the city.  The holographic monitors in the student lounges were usually turned to sports or MTV, almost never to the news.  No students strolled the blocks surrounding the campus--they had everything they needed within the force-field protected walls, patrolled by armed guards.

Today was the exception.  Every eye in the Central Lounge--the place to be seen if you were part of GSU's in-crowd--was riveted to the holovision, which was broadcasting the local Channel 7. 

"Effective today," the deputy mayor was saying, "A city-wide curfew is in effect for all persons under the age of twenty-one, in an effort to reduce the gang violence and general crime that is plaguing our city.  Any persons found on the streets after ten p.m. will be detained and possibly arrested." 

Cries of outrage started almost immediately. 

"They can't do that!" exclaimed a delicate blonde with long, flowing hair pulled back attractively over her ears.  "What will we do?!"

"It's not like Gotham has a lot to offer, Mandy," shrugged her friend, brunette and not nearly as attractive.  "Compared to Keystone City this place is like...Beirut or something.  Total drag.  The campus is much better."  Mandy Kent buried her face in her hands and sank to a nearby couch.

"But Kara, Alex and I were supposed to go out clubbing tonight!  I think he's getting ready to ask me to his parent's beach house!"  Kara West patted her friend's shoulder. 

"It'll be okay, 'Manda.  I'm sure he'll still ask you if you're alone in your dorm room...heck, he's probably more likely to, if you catch my drift." 

"Why can't you just call up your sister and make her and her little justice friends do something about these stupid gangs?!" Mandy cried.  Kara rolled her eyes.

"Please.  My sister only got into the Junior Justice League so she could be on magazine covers.  Besides, I think they're in space right now or something."  Mandy moaned, as if all hope was lost.

"I _can't_ have Alex dump me now!  The fall formal is only a few weeks away!"

"Did I hear my name?" said a male voice from behind the two girls.  Mandy turned and then jumped up, hugging the tall blonde who stood behind them. 

"Alex!"  He kissed her on the cheek.

"Hey, honey."  He frowned.  "What's making you look so sad?  Tell me so I can fix it."  Mandy pointed at the television. 

"The stupid curfew!  We can't go to the club!"  Alex rubbed her shoulders. 

"I only wanted to go to the club so I could spend time with you, baby.  But if you were really set on going, let me call my father.  He's good friends with the deputy mayor."  Mandy perked up almost instantly.

"Really?"  Alex smiled.

"Really.  They went to Metropolis Business School together."  Mandy kissed Alex this time, being careful not to leave a smear of her discreet pink lipstick. 

"You're the best."  Alex grinned modestly.

"I'm just me, baby."  He checked his watch.  "I gotta get to class.  See you tonight!  Wear something sexy."  He winked at her and walked away.  Kara sighed.

"Man, is he dreamy.  And well-connected.  I guess being the son of Lex Luthor is good for something, right?"  Mandy smiled at her friend.

"It's the best.  Now come and help me pick out something to wear!"

---

The armored police ground vehicle rumbled along the street, it's rubber wheels laced with Teflon biting into the cracked pavement and propelling it with a jagged grinding sound over potholes. 

Inside was a fifteen-man team of Gotham City SWAT.  Most of the men had seen more combat than war veterans.  They were not strangers to the devastated landscape that rolled past outside--wooden buildings and metal-plate shanties strung with jury-rigged electrical wires, storefronts turned into armored bunkers, and the miserable swirl of humanity that populated it, colored with the jagged edge of gang graffiti.

Thirty years ago, an earthquake had swept through Gotham, leveling large portions of the city in a few moments.  Fires did the rest.  Rebuilding had erased most of the damage, except for this small sore on Gotham's smooth metal visage.  It had once been the heart of the old downtown district, but in the months of lawlessness and looting that followed the quake it had become the stronghold of the street-level underworld. 

On the map, it was the Central Ward.  The cops called it No Man's Land. 

Slums and hideouts were all that was left of the theaters, shops and homes that had once stood. Cops and reporters who ventured past it's borders disappeared.  It was the urban equivalent of an enchanted forest, populated with creatures evil beyond imagination. 

The SWAT transport stopped in front of a boarded-up department store, the skinny wood building leaning crazily to one side, about to topple.  Hard leaning on several informants had yielded this spot as location of Marionette, bomb maker extraordinaire and rising star in the Gotham City underworld.

"Here," said the captain of the squad.  His name was Evans, and he'd been a SWAT commander for five years.  Spent more than his share of time in No Man's Land, and busted more than his share of scum.  Evans didn't fit the profile of the hardass SWAT cop—he was small and wore contact lenses.  Behind the lenses he had soft eyes that didn't miss anything.  He lived alone and he'd been Daniel Thorne's first choice to lead SWAT Squad One when Thorne became commissioner.

Evans clicked his helmet holo-link and saw the face of the self-same man.  "Sir, we're  position."  Thorne nodded.

"Recording?"

"Yes, sir," said Evans.  In-helmet recorders monitored every move the team made from the moment an op started.

"Let it be known that I, Daniel Thorne, officially sanction this police action.  Move ahead, gentlemen."  Evans had trained Squad One into the elite of the GCPD, and they knew the drill.  They exited the transport at three-second intervals, sticking close to the armored sides of their transport.  They knew they were here to apprehend a terrorist.  One who made bombs.  That was making more than a few of them nervous.

Evans checked the clip on his rifle and muttered into his helmet mic, "Begin operation to capture terrorist suspect code-name Marionette.  At this time op is green."  A red light in the corner of his HUD let him know that his helmet recorded was monitoring his every move.  He put his comm back on the squad frequency and barked one word.  "Go!"

Moving in two fluid columns, Squad One charged up the rickety side stairs and kicked down the door, training their rifle at the one person in the room.  "Hands on your head!" Evans screamed. 

There was a moment of silence.  Both Captain Evans and the person he supposed was Marionette blinked in surprise.  The captain hadn't really been expecting a mad scientist in a white coat, but he hadn't been expecting a teenage girl in pajamas either.  He briefly wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake.

Then he saw the jury-rigged lab equipment, the bottles and boxes marked HAZARDOUS and the "oh shit" expression the girl was wearing and decided that he'd probably been right.  He jerked his head and five of his men trained their guns on the girl.  She raised one eyebrow, her face a stark white in the glare from the SWAT team's rifle-mounted lights. 

"Is there a problem, officers?"  Evans took the cuffs off his belt and pulled her arms behind her, closing them quickly.  Her arms were skinny with small biceps and bony elbows.  She was still practically a child.  Evans backed off and motioned to another member of Squad One.

"Pat her down."

The man began a thorough search of her person.  On special SWAT ops, any claims of assault by the victims, be it sexual or physical, was null and void.  The bill had been enacted just last year. 

"You might want to Miranda me," Marionette told the officer snidely.  "Correct me if I'm wrong but I think I still have one or two civil rights left."

"Shut the fuck up," responded the officer.  "That do it for you?"  The girl licked her lips with an almost predatory expression.

"I dunno, baby...was it good for you?" 

"Get her out of here!" snapped Evans.  He motioned to the rest of the squad.  "Have a look at this stuff."  The girl stopped and looked back as the squad started to move deeper into the room, examining her equipment.  Her expression wasn't smirking anymore. 

"I wouldn't do that." 

"Move," snarled the officer holding her. 

"Okay, okay," said Marionette, "but don't go saying I didn't warn you."  Evans felt the tingle across the backs of his hands, the danger sense developed from fifteen years of duty on the force and in the streets, but it was too late.  An explosion ripped through the room and threw the SWAT team to the four corners of the wind.  Evans was dead before he hit the floor, along with seven members of Squad One.

The blast threw Marionette to the ground with her captor on top of her.  The SWAT officer suffered third-degree burns to most of his back.  Marionette was just scraped. 

As flames spewed from what was once her laboratory, she lay face-down on the floor and laughed.

---

A/N: If you like the story, please leave a review.  Critiques are welcome as well.  Should I continue?  Enquiring minds want to know…


	2. Disposable Heroes

**Disclaimer:  **I don't own DC Comics, and thus none of their characters.  Batman, Barbara Gordon, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Terry McGuiness, The Joker, Nightwing and all other DC characters belong to someone else.  Not me.  Too bad, really.  I'm not making a profit off of Bob Kane's fine creation.

**I own everyone not created by DC.  Don't use them without permission.**

On with the show…

It was after 2 a.m., but Barbara couldn't sleep.  Normally she took her prescribed dosages of painkillers and fell into dreamless slumber, but tonight was different.  

She chalked it up to her break in routine, and closed her eyes firmly, willing sleep to come.

It didn't.  Barbara hadn't had a night like this in years, not since she'd finally given in and started taking the antidepressants that the doctors, Bruce and Dick had been badgering her to take.  Not since she'd learn to drug herself into oblivion.

She had figured, with the Birds of Prey disbanded, there was no reason not to.  Black Canary and Huntress were the only reasons she endured the insomnia and the nightmares that came when she finally did fall asleep.  Only when she watched the news and the webcasts and heard from Bruce how they were keeping Gotham from igniting with the flames of the inferno could she close her eyes without seeing a wide, red smile.  

Now, there was nothing.  She sold her information to the highest bidder and didn't care about the outside world.  The name Oracle had ceased to be anything but her guarantee of anonymity.  If the Birds of Prey could see her now… 

Barbara didn't let herself dwell on that thought.  Her accident had made her a shadow of what she was when she was Batgirl, and she faded a little more each day. 

Barbara threw the covers off her in exasperation and lowered herself into her wheelchair.  She wheeled to her bank of computers by habit, but she didn't turn on the monitors.  She was staring into space, her jumpy mind whisking past a thousand half-formed thoughts when her phone rang.

It was the police line.  Barbara picked up, half-hoping it was Daniel Thorne again. 

"Oracle?"  She smiled a little.

"I think we're past that, Commissioner."  He didn't chuckle. 

"We got the bomber."  Barbara perked up.

"Stefan's lead?"

"It was good.  We released him around five o'clock."  Barbara nodded in satisfaction.  She was glad the thing with Freze had gone her way. He was a smart kid and he could be useful later on.  Assuming he didn't have the tendencies of the elder Freze, that was.

"So who's the Marionette?"  Her free hand reached for a pad and pen to jot down any information Thorne might have that she couldn't glean from her connection to the GCPD's database.  Marionette would become another strand in Barbara's web of information about the criminals and scum of the city. 

"You're not going to believe this," said Thorne.  He sounded exhausted, and Barbara guessed he hadn't slept since the bombing. 

"I'll believe almost anything," said Barbara, because it was true. 

"Marionette is female.  Young, too."  His voice hardened.  "She killed seven SWAT officers and the squad leader.  Booby-trapped her lab to blow if it was touched."  Barbara raised an eyebrow.

"Very Bond-villain.  I suppose it's too much to hope she broke down and confessed?"

"Actually, we couldn't stop her," said Thorne.  "Told us everything she knew about the bombing.  She was rather proud of her work."  He sighed.  "The only thing she didn't give up was the locations of Anarchy and their leader.  Claims she doesn't know.  We're working on the court order for mind-invasion."  Barbara winced slightly.  The brutal combination of electric shocks and truth-inducing drugs was still under hot dispute in the Supreme Court.  Gotham was one of the few counties that allowed it to be employed in interrogations. 

"Thank you for calling," she told Thorne.  "Please keep me informed." 

"That's not all," he said.  "It gets much, much better."  Barbara sat back.

"Oh?"

"When we booked her we had to go through the usuals...fingerprint, retinal print, DNA recording.  You'll never believe who we matched her to when we ran the gene sample against known offenders."

"If I say Superman, I'm going to sound silly," said Barbara.  Thorne didn't respond to the crack. 

"You've had run-ins with him, when you worked with Batman," he said.  "In fact, the papers liked to use the term 'nemesis' for him and the Dark Knight."  Barbara felt her entire body go numb, frozen in place while her mind screamed _not true not true not true!_  It wasn't him, didn't have to be him, could be any one of a thousand crooks Batman had had a run-in with.  "Barbara?" said Thorne.

"Who?" she whispered, her voice scraping her throat painfully.

"Jack Napier.  The Joker."

Barbara let out a cry, and flung the phone across the room.  She curled her upper body as tight as she could make it, rocking back and forth, sobs wracking her.

After a time she became aware of Thorne's voice, sounding tiny and far away.  "Barbara?  Barbara, are you alright?  Barbara!"  Barbara pushed her chair forward to the fallen phone, picked up the receiver and set it back in its cradle very softly. 

"You're dead," she told the walls matter-of-factly.  "_DEAD!_" she shrieked at the top of her lungs. 

No one answered her.  Barbara rolled over to her bed and flopped in, pulling the covers around her tight enough to smother.  She lay awake for the rest of the night, staring into the dark.

---

It was morning in Gotham, and those lucky enough to have apartments that rose above the pollution clouds were enjoying a day with warm suns that promised to be hot by the afternoon.  From his floor-to-ceiling windows, Alex Luthor watched the traffic go by as he did his morning workout, five hundred reps of weights and some light karate.

After all, when you were dating Superman's daughter, it paid to be in shape. 

Even the wealthiest students of GSU usually lived in the dorms, which were palatial in their own right.  But Alex knew that no Luthor would ever be caught dead in communal housing, and had opted for this penthouse in the upscale Downtown District, near the apartments of the deputy mayor, several well-known mobsters and the headquarters of Wayne Enterprises. 

Alex finished his last bicep curl and shucked his workout gear, heading into the shower.  He stood under cold water for a few seconds before drying off and putting on a casual blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks.  It was the way his father had started every day of his life, and he'd drummed it into Alex. 

Alex knew it was only because Lex had grown up in slums and there hadn't _been _any hot water, never mind a shower, but he humored his father nonetheless.

He was combing his honey-blond hair when the doorbell rang.  One of his two bodyguards, who got paid a lot of money to make sure no one tried to take a crack at him, answered it.

"Sir, it's Mr. Shock."  Alex rolled his eyes.

"Let him in."  The doors of the penthouse slid back to reveal a big stim-pumped guy with a magenta mohawk, dressed in leathers and spikes with a bloody anarchy A painted on the back of his jacket.  He was heavily tattooed from neck to Alex didn't care to know where.

"The fucking oinks tagged Marionette," were the first words from his mouth.

"And a good morning to you too," said Alex, accepting the protein smoothie his other bodyguard handed him.

"Did you not hear me, gold-plated dick?" said Shock.  Alex shot him a look, one that he'd learned from Lex.  Shock shut his mouth, but still glared angrily from bleary, drugged eyes. 

"So they got Marionette.  So what?" said Alex.  "We were planning to knock her off anyway after the next job."  Shock hit one palm with a spiked fist, leaving small studs of blood.  He didn't seem to notice.

"She knows a lot!  Too fuckin' much, in fact!  What are we gunna do?!"

"I'll tell you what we're 'gunna' do, friend," said Alex.  "We're going to go ahead with the plans as scheduled."  Shock growled.

"We got no fuckin' bombs for the fuckin' plan because we got no fuckin' Marionette to make 'em!" Shock snapped.  Alex heaved a sigh.

"Unbunch your panties, for God's sake, Shock.  She's not the only person in this city who knows how to put glycerin and nitrates in a tube.  Because you screwed up, I'll find this someone else and pay then an equally exorbitant sum, probably."  Alex shrugged on a tan jacket with leather patches at the elbows.  "In the mean time," he said to Shock, "get your little gutter rats together and find whoever sold Marionette out to Gotham's finest."  Shock started to say something but Alex held up his hand.  "And don't worry...I'll arrange it so she never talks to anyone again."

"You better make good on this, joy boy," said Shock. 

"While your colorful nicknames never cease to delight me," said Alex, crossing casually to Shock and grabbing his balls in a tight vise grip, "refer to me as anything but 'Mr. Luthor' or the occasional 'boss' again and I will have your _cojones_ in a jar."  He squeezed.  Shock squealed.  "Understand, _joy boy_?" 

"Yeah...yeah!" squeaked Shock.  Alex released him.

"Get out of here.  You stink."  Shock hurriedly left, limping slightly.  Alex calmed his breathing and smoothed his hair once more before gathering his books and setting out for class.

---

Daniel Thorne looked at the address his files had directed him to.  Oracle hadn't been easy to find--he'd had to resort to digging up old police reports on the Birds of Prey and extrapolate a location from them.  Even now, he wasn't sure.

Thorne was in civilian clothes, in an unmarked car and without a police guard.  He wasn't as skittish as most of Gotham's elected officials, like Art Berg.  Berg would have tossed his lunch at the thought of venturing into this part of town unguarded.

Thorne came from stronger stuff, though, so he merely tried the door at the bottom of the condemned loft building. 

It was bolted shut tightly.  Thorne noticed a small buzzer to his right and pressed it.  A long moment passed before a voice crackled.

"I should kill you for giving away my location." 

"I wasn't followed," said Thorne.  "May I come up?"  There was a long pause.  "Hello?"

"I'm thinking," said Barbara Gordon.  Thorne shifted, looking up and down the street once.  There was no one near him except a few stray cats.  A kid who didn't look older than fifteen was selling stims on the corner.  It was almost eerily quiet, except for a breeze blowing trash.

Thorne jumped when the door buzzer sounded.  He pushed it open quickly and went inside, meeting complete dark.  He took out a penlight and flicked it on, a holdover from his days as a homicide detective. 

Narrow stairs lead up, with an antique chairlift running along the wall.  Thorne noticed another wheelchair sitting at the foot of the stairs.  He went up slowly, meeting with a mesh grate like the ones shop owners used before the wide advent of force fields, and stopped.

"Barbara?"  The apartment was so dim it was almost night-like.  He hear the whirr of her wheelchair and she came out of the dark.

"You're a stupid man, Thorne," she said by way of greeting. 

"I found you, didn't I?" he responded.  She snorted and punched a code into the grate controls.  It clattered back noisily. 

"What do you want?" she tossed over her shoulder, wheeling back to her bank of monitors and quickly minimizing the images on the screen.  Thorne estimated there was well over fifty thousand dollars of illegal nethack and computer equipment in the big room.  He followed Barbara, being careful where he stepped.  The floor was rife with papers, empty takeout cartons and pill bottles.  Thorne picked one up and examined it, only to have it slapped out of his hand.  Barbara was glaring at him. 

"Mind your own business while you're in my territory," she told him. 

"I didn't think a cheery girl like you would need Xanax," he said dryly.  Barbara's eyes narrowed.

"Bite me, Thorne."  She crossed her arms.  "You have ten more seconds to tell me the reason for this invasion of my privacy." 

"I have a proposition for you," Thorne said.  "You know, continuing that discussion we had down at headquarters."  Barbara's face grew even more closed, her arms drawing tighter around her small frame.  Thorne took a closer look at her face.  It had been gaunt and serious when he'd met her at the downtown lockup, but now she seemed haggard, and even paler than before.  There were deep shadows cast under her eyes.  Thorne saw the same thing in the mirror when he'd been working a case for thirty-six hours straight.

"I'm waiting," said Barbara, and Thorne realized he'd grown silent.

"This city is on a downhill slide, in spite of everything I've tried to do," he said. 

"No shit," said Barbara with a curl of her lip.  "Did you come all the way over here to state the obvious?"

"With Anarchy on the loose, plus the emergence of Marionette and the revelation of her...ah...connection to the worst criminal mastermind Gotham's ever been plagued with, the police can't cut it anymore."

"If they ever could," said Barbara.

"Batman isn't enough.  Maybe ten years ago he would have been effective, but the city's too big and too mean for one man to handle." 

"Get to the point, Commissioner," said Barbara.  Thorne ran a hand through his hair.

"You were part of the Golden Age.  You helped Batman.  Now I need you to help me."  Barbara blinked. 

"Excuse me?"

"A team, to combat these yahoos that are springing up like goddamned daisies," said Thorne.  "A group geared specifically towards gangs like Anarchy and people like this Marionette." 

"Superheroes?" said Barbara skeptically.  "No such thing anymore."

"I'm not talking about superheroes," said Thorne.  "I'm talking about a strike force, a tactical team that's equipped to deal with what's out there."  He unconsciously pressed his hands together.  "Barbara…I can't do this without you."  Barbara gave him a cold gaze in return.

"Even if I was the type of person you think I am, I still wouldn't help you.  I work alone.  It's safer that way."

"The city needs you," said Thorne.

"The city's been getting by without me for the last twenty years," said Barbara.  "I doubt any church bells will ring or parades will be held if I agree to go under your thumb, Commissioner."

"I didn't mean that…"  Thorne sighed.  "Look, when I was a kid I believed in what you and Batman were doing.  It was pure justice.  I've learned the system rarely allows for it, but that doesn't mean I believe in it any less.  I'm asking you, as someone I admire…"

"Oh, cut the bullshit," said Barbara.  "You're not going to get me by that route." 

"Then what will get you, Barbara?"  Barbara turned her chair away from him.

"Leave.  I've followed one arrogant man on a hopeless crusade and I'm not doing it again."  Thorne opened his mouth, but Barbara held up a hand.  "Leave," she said again, with more menace in her voice.  Thorne turned and walked to the stairs.

"I'm leaving my card in case you change your mind."

"If it makes you feel better."  She resumed her typing and surfing, ignoring Thorne pointedly.  Thorne caught a glimpse of what she was looking at—web streamed footage of the Joker, his mouth open in a silent, endless laugh.

Thorne started to ask Barbara once more, but thought better of it, and left.

---

Barbara waited until she was sure Thorne was gone and then slumped down, her shoulders shaking.  She didn't have anything left to cry, so she just shuddered.  Her skin felt dry and cold to the touch even though her loft was usually overly warm from all the electronics. 

She heard nothing but the blood rush past her ears and felt like she was being burned from the inside out. 

This agony she thought had ended almost twenty years ago had never gone away…it had just been tucked back in some recess of her mind and forgotten, like a prisoner in solitary confinement.  But prisoners get released, and Barbara's was running free.  

She looked at the monitor, that hateful grinning face, and suddenly lashed out, putting her fist through the glass.  Her knuckles bled but she felt nothing except a dull impact.  Her vision started to skew and the coldly logical part of her mind told her she was having a panic attack.  She shoved herself away from her desk hard, rolling backwards into her armchair.  It fell with a crash and the impact knocked Barbara from her chair.

She lay on her side, shaking and retching, not able to see past the blurry white boundaries that were crowding her vision.  Phantom sounds faded in and out.  Screaming.  Crying.  Laughing.

Barbara saw a half-empty bottle of Valium lying on its side near her face, and reached for it.  She had to make it stop…somehow…  The childproof cap ripped her fingernails, but came off, and Barbara shook a handful of the white capsules out, gulping them down all at once and feeling the lining of her throat tear as they gouged their way down.

She convulsed once more, and then lay still.  There was only silence around her, pressing in like a feather bed.  Barbara felt tears roll down her face.  She wondered why she was crying.  It wasn't like she was going to miss her life the way it was now.  She was useless, just another leech feeding off the world.

_If I ever had a purpose, _she said silently, _then tell me_.  _Tell me that my entire life wasn't lived for someone else's ideals, that everything I've done hasn't been worthless._

_Tell me that I'm half the woman I used to be…_

No answers were forthcoming before Barbara slipped into unconsciousness.

---

Terry McGuiness, the chosen Batman, was crouched on a rooftop near the waterfront watching three members of the Anarchy gang crowd around a laptop computer with a satellite uplink.

Bruce had it on good authority that they were planning to blow up a section of the Gotham monorail via remote bombs linked to this very computer. 

Normally, Terry would try to disable the bombs at the source, but the Gotham Knights had been playing a home game in the shockball stadium, and the monorail would be packed with thousands of innocent citizens.  Bruce had been adamant that Terry not screw up again.

Terry lived in something akin to a fearful worship of Bruce Wayne, who had transformed him from just another street thug into the feared specter of revenge he was now.  He had idolized Batman, like almost every other kid in Gotham, and now he _was_ Batman. 

It was pretty mindmelting stuff, as his little brother liked to say.  Being Batman had enabled Terry to get his mother and brother out of their slum apartment and into a decent part of town, and let him graduate high school and go to the Wayne Technical Institute on a full scholarship.  In the back of his mind, Terry had never expected to make it as the Bat.  He was sure death was waiting for him every time he slipped on the cybernetic suit and took the Batjet out into the night sky.

But it never came, and so he was still Batman.  Older and wiser, but apparently less able to please his mentor than he'd once been. 

The Anarchy member who had been doing most of the typing on the computer suddenly straightened up and started to tap furiously on the keypad.  Terry tensed, knowing that he was getting ready to arm the bombs.  _Wait for the opportune moment_...because being Batman was about striking fear in their hearts as well as stopping their crimes.

The Anarchy computer nerd suddenly stopped typing and looked towards the door.  Terry did also, and saw a big, mohawked gang member come in, followed by a shorter, slimmer blond man in a black shirt and slacks.  The blond looked vaguely familiar, but Terry couldn't place him offhand.  He pointed at the computer and said something with a frown.  Mohawk and Nerd responded angrily.  The other two gang members shifted their weight, and Terry saw they had heavy-gauge plasma handguns strapped in their studded belts.

"Nice hardware..." Terry murmured to himself, even as he wondered where a gang of unruly stim freaks like Anarchy had gotten the cash to afford them.  He tapped his temple, and the suit snapped a holo to be stored for later analysis. 

The blond glared at Mohawk, and the big guy finally backed down.  The blond took out a data disk and inserted it into the computer, typing in something new.  Terry knew he couldn't wait anymore.  He stood and descended through the skylight in a rain of glass, landing amidst the Anarchy flunkies and lashing out with feet and fists.

Two of them went for their guns, and Terry countered with a batarang.  One double over, holding a bleeding hand, but one got a shot off.  Terry ducked, felt the hot plasma glide over his head and then took the thug out with a backflip kick.

Blondie and Mohawk were heading for the door.  Terry unsheathed two batarangs and let them loose, but missed.  He cursed inside his mask.  Figured the big fish slipped the net.

He spun just in time to see the last standing Anarchy member make a dive for the computer, presumably to set off the bombs.  Terry grabbed a button bomb from his utility belt, one that emitted an electrical impulse, and tossed it.  It fried the computer outright, and gave the thug a nasty shock too.  He fell, moaning.  A slight smell of cooked meat filled the air.

Terry heard sirens from above and was bathed in red light from the GCPD's hovercraft.  He made for the same door that Blondie and Mohawk had used, smiling to himself.  They had gotten away, but he'd stopped the bombing, saved hundreds of innocent lives. 

Bruce would be proud.

---

Thomas Wayne was sprawled on the sofa of his mother's apartment in pajama pants, watching a television program about a shockball player who was abducted by aliens and given powers to fight crime when his mother walked in the door.  She was wearing a black evening gown and a white velvet coat with matching fur trim that swept the floor.  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"Kind of early for eveningwear, isn't it, Mother?"  Selina Kyle shot her son an unamused look.

"Not when it's from the night before."

"Is that real fur?"

"Please."  Thomas muted the television. 

"Want to work out a little before you hit the sack?"  Selina shed her coat, removing a metal jewelry case from a hidden pocket.

"Let me put this in the safe first."  Thomas padded after her on bare feet as she went into the library and opened her hidden safe.

"Who'd you steal that from?"

"It's 'liberate', darling.  A city councilman.  His wife has three more like it...the stupid cow probably won't even notice this one is missing until she tries to give it to her ugly daughter on the poor girl's wedding day."  She popped the case into the safe and the coded lock clicked back into place.  The safe slid into the wall and the camouflage holofield switched on.  "How was your weekend, dear?" asked Selina.

"It was alright," said Thomas.  "Dad spent the entire time in meetings, except when he came home to have a screaming match with Terry."

"You weren't anywhere near city hall when it blew up, I hope."  No one was allowed to pry into Thomas's life—in that he was very like his father.  Selina was the exception, mostly because she'd kick his ass if he kept secrets from her.  She'd gotten enough of that from Bruce before the divorce.

"No, Mom.  I wasn't."  Selina nodded once. 

"Good."  She went into her bedroom and shut the door, re-emerging in workout clothes.  "Go easy on me, dear.  I'm quite tired."

"You're not getting me with that old trick," said Thomas with a grin.  Selina stopped and regarded him.

"You never smile anymore, Tom.  I miss it."  Thomas shrugged.

"Sorry."  Selina turned and went into the practice room, Thomas following her. 

"Don't hate your father because of Batman," she said, stretching like the cat she once was.  "He loves you, even if he can't admit it." 

"I don't think my father is capable of that kind of love," said Thomas bitterly.  Selina looked sad.

"He is.  And you'll both realize it...I hope."  She faced him on the gym mat.  "What have you been practicing?"

"Acrobatics mostly," said Thomas.  He was a better fighter than his father had been at his age, more agile and more athletic.  He had his mother to thank for that, and he knew it.  When she'd divorced Bruce, Selina had made a deal with her son--he wouldn't tell Bruce that she had gone back to being a high-stakes thief, and she wouldn't tell Bruce that Thomas was being trained to, as Selina put it, "handle himself".  Bruce had expressly forbidden anything of the sort.

The deal had been working well ever since.  Thomas and Selina sparred, and he beat her, although barely.  She yawned when it was over.

"I'm going to sleep, but you owe me a rematch, Junior."  Thomas nodded and reached for a towel. 

"'Night, Mom."  He sat back down in front of the television, noticing the alien shockball player had been replaced with an emergency newscast. 

"...Exploded this morning on the Red and Yellow lines, Gotham's busiest monorail systems.  Casualties are still being evaluated, but are estimated in the thousands.  Once again, the terrorist gang Anarchy has claimed responsibility for the rush-hour bombing of two monorail cars on Gotham's Yellow and Red lines..."  Thomas watched as the camera panned over twisted metal and shattered cars, human limbs hanging from the wreckage like wilted flowers.  He swallowed.  Where was Batman? Why hadn't he done something? 

Thomas's fist clenched and he swept the small sculpture off Selina's coffee table.  It fell to the carpeted floor with a dull THUNK, and didn't break.  Terry was a disgrace to the name.  Thomas knew he could do better.

He only wished he could prove it.

---

It wasn't the hand of God or the flames of the inferno that woke Barbara.  It was a small, insistent beeping sound that began to penetrate her skull like an icepick, yanking her back towards consciousness even though she tried to resist.

She flopped on her back and looked at the ceiling.  Her chair was out of reach and she was lying in a pool of something sticky that smelled incredibly bad.  She reached up with one hand to wipe her face and found blood mixed with dried vomit.

Her head was pounding and her entire body was tingly and light, as if it wasn't quite all there.  The beeping continued.  Barbara moaned.  Her torso was stiff from lying on the floor for god knows how long, and her mouth and throat were on fire.  She tried to cry, but no tears came.  She had tried her hardest to regain what little dignity she had, and all it had gotten her was a battered stomach and a hangover. 

Hadn't she asked for a sign?  Didn't she deserve one?  Barbara curled on her side as a spasm went through her stomach, her body ridding itself of the last of the Valium.  She saw that her convulsions had scattered her clothes, books and papers all over the floor, leaving a large bare circle around her.  She gave a start as she realized what was poking out of the mess in front of her face.

A mask with small pointed ears, designed to be pulled over the eyes and nose.  A body suit attached with a yellow bat resting at the center of the chest.  Barbara shivered, this one having nothing to do with the pills.  "I get the hint," she muttered.  If her years with Batman had taught her anything, it was not to ignore the obvious clues.

Barbara mustered the strength she had left and pulled herself out of the puddle she had created and over to her chair.  Her arms gave out and she couldn't pull herself in.

The persistent, headache-inducing beeping, she realized, was coming from her computers.  It was her alert signal, set to go off when something big hit the nets--disaster reports, federal mandates, criminals that she had tagged popping up on the police grid. 

"Display," said Barbara hoarsely, and her voice recognition software kicked in, the screens blinking to life.  Scenes of crashed trains and burned bodies scrolled before her.  Barbara didn't have to look at the accompanying text to know Anarchy had hit Gotham again. 

Barbara willed herself strength and got into her chair, wheeling to the bathroom to clean herself up.  She drank down three glasses of water to make her stomach stop feeling like it was going to implode on itself and brushed her teeth for five or six minutes before rinsing and starting again.  Her mind was racing, and even though she was weak and sick she felt fired like she hadn't in years.

It took her a minute to realized what it was--purpose.  She had something to do, something to focus on.  After she'd washed her face, Barbara picked up the phone and placed a call to Daniel Thorne's office.  The line was busy and she left a voice message.

"This is the Oracle.  I saw the news.  I thought about your offer.  I know some people that might help you."

---

A/N: The plot thickens.  Still think it rocks?  Even if you don't I'd really like it if you leave a review.  They make me all warm and happy inside.


	3. The Call of Duty

**Disclaimer:  **I don't own DC Comics, and thus none of their characters.  Batman, Barbara Gordon, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Terry McGuiness, The Joker, Nightwing and all other DC characters belong to someone else.  Not me.  Too bad, really.  I'm not making a profit off of Bob Kane's fine creation.

**I own everyone not created by DC.  Don't use them without permission.**

The saga continues…

Alex sat in his office watching the scenes of destruction play out on a small in-desk monitor.  He smiled with satisfaction and clicked it off.  An alert popped up reminding him that he had a date with Mandy at seven o'clock.  He made a note of it and looked at his watch.

Alex didn't like to be kept waiting.  The person he had called was late, and the way Alex figured it, mass destruction of public transit and skyblocks throughout the city were no excuse.  As his impatience was about to boil over, one of his bodyguards tapped on the door.  "Mr. Luthor?"  Alex stood.

"Send him in."  He straighten his back and tried to make himself look older.  At twenty-two, he looked more like his mother than his father, and that bothered him.  Boyishness only lead to disrespect.

His study doors opened and the person he had called for came in.  Alex noted with annoyance he was wearing his black hood and mask.  As if he wasn't already conspicuous enough in the body armor and spiked gloves.  Alex pasted a smile on his face and extended a hand.

"Mr. Crane..."

"Nightmare," came the reply, filtered through a breather and a microphone.

"Excuse me?" said Alex.

"My father is Mr. Crane.  Call me Nightmare."

"Whatever levitates your hovercraft, Nightmare."  Nightmare's steady breathing didn't change behind the mask.

"What's the job you have for me?"  Alex handed him a data reader with the relevant information.  Nightmare scanned it quickly. 

"Twenty thousand," was his response. 

"I'll give you half that," said Alex.  "Once you have proof she's dead."  Nightmare's black glassy mask eyes fixed on him, and Alex was glad the assassin didn't have x-ray vision.  He would have seen the sweat trickling down Alex's chest.

"You don't have your father's negotiation skills, that's for sure," said Nightmare.  He handed the pad back.  "Fifteen.  Half now, half when I deliver the proof.  That's fair."  Alex bristled, more at the comment about Lex than the price.

"I'll tell you what's fair and what's not, you goddamn freak of nature!"  Nightmare stepped up and placed his hands on Alex's shoulders, the jagged claws on the ends of his gloves biting through the fabric of Alex's jacket.

"Don't fuck with me, Mr. Luthor.  I can make your nightmares come true."  Alex swallowed. 

"Twelve."  Nightmare stepped away, almost as if he hadn't been aware he was that close to Alex.

"Done."  He nodded once and left.

Alex slumped back in his chair and didn't move for a long time.

---

**Bludhaven**

Regina Grayson's feet pounded along the wooden path above Boardwalk Beach, the sandy strip deserted this late at night.  She checked her watch as she ran and cursed.

Late.  She was going to get grounded again.  Regina wanted to blame her parents, for making her take so many AP classes it necessitated going to study groups almost every night of the week, but she couldn't.  She couldn't because she hadn't _been_ at a study group, even though her parents thought she was.

Regina had gone to the Shady Point Lighthouse with her friends, and Rory Coleman, a varsity lacrosse player she was hoping would become her boyfriend.  If the way he'd been trying to grope her was a good indication, she was well on her way to going steady.

By the time she'd checked her watch, it was too late to even have a hope of getting home in time.  Now she was going to have to face the wrath of Richard Grayson, Chief of Police for the city of Bludhaven and the world's most unreasonable parent.

Regina turned a sharp corner, barely looked to see if the light was right for her to cross Breaker Boulevard, and began the home stretch of the race towards the Grayson's house, once a summer cottage for a Gotham industrialist.

Now it was a veritable fortress, surrounded by a high, decorative iron fence with electrified bars and a code-locked gate that closed promptly at 10 p.m. on weeknights.  Regina's father's rule was if you were late, it was your problem.  After which, he grounded you.

Regina looked at her watch: 9:59.  The gates were within thirty feet, and she poured on more speed.  She wasn't captain of the Bludhaven High track team for nothing.  There was a creak as the hour flipped over and the gates started to shut.  Regina sprinted, and pulled up short, nearly falling over as the electricity began to hum through the bars.

"Shit," she muttered.  She steadied her breathing and approached the gate.  Her situation became less dire when she saw that her father's police-issue black hovercraft wasn't parked on the landing pad.

He was working late.  Regina sprung into action, taking off her backpack full of books and notes to cover her partying, flinging it high.  It cleared the gate and the protective lasers at the top and landed on her driveway with a dull _thud_.  Regina walked around the fence to where  a tall oak tree bent it's branches into her yard and started to climb.  The trunk was smooth, but Regina got a foothold and scrambled for dear life.

It wasn't the first time she'd made this entrance to her house, but Dick had finally caught her one night and metered out a good yelling as well as punishment.  But what he didn't know...

Regina edged out on the longest branch until she was sure it wouldn't hold her weight anymore, and then stood, balancing on a piece of wood no wider than a large man's thumb.  She tensed her legs, and then launched herself towards the upstairs window, catching the sill with a clunk.  She opened the window with one hand and pulled herself inside.

"I'm telling Dad!"  Regina looked up from the floor and heaved a sigh.

"Oh please, Sammy.  It's 10:05.  Cut me a break."  Her little sister crossed her arms. 

"Your necklace, the black beaded one you wore to homecoming."  Regina lay on the floor for another moment, feeling where she was going to have bruises on her arms from the jump, and then nodded.

"Okay.  Take it.  It's in my jewelry box."  Samantha Grayson bounded out of the room to collect her prize, and Regina pulled herself to her feet and went to get her backpack off the driveway.  When she came back in there was a letter sitting on the table in the front hall.

_Ms. Regina Grayson_

_1255 Seaside Ave___

_Bludhaven 01288_

There was no return address.  Curious, Regina dropped her backpack and opened the letter. 

_Dear Ms. Grayson,_

_On behalf of police commissioner Daniel Thorne of __Gotham__City__, you have been invited to join a counter-terrorist team composed of unique individuals such as yourself.  We believe your talents and skills will be very useful to us.  If you are interest please report to:_

_12010 Meridian Ave___

_Southwest Ward_

_Gotham__City___

_No later than __12 p.m.__ two days from now.  If you do not attend, we will assume that you have no interest in our team._

_Please consider this opportunity carefully.  We await your decision._

_Sincerely,_

_Barbara Gordon_

_Special Attaché to the City of __Gotham___

Regina looked at the signature line for a long moment.  She realized her hand was shaking and put the letter on back on the table, face up.  It stared her in the face.  _A team composed of unique individuals such as yourself..._

Regina knew all about Barbara Gordon, her father's tenure as Robin and the identity of the first Batman.  Dick had used his experiences as bedtime stories since Regina had been in diapers.  But Barbara had been the one thing he never talked about.  When she'd gotten older, Regina had figured out that her father and the commissioner's daughter had been in love.  At least, her father had.  She didn't know if it went both ways.

And now Barbara wanted her to follow in Robin's footsteps.  "But if I have to wear that dorky costume, I am so out of there," Regina muttered to herself.

"Who are you talking to?"  Regina jumped.

"Shit, Sammy.  Don't sneak up on people like that!"

"I'm gonna tell Dad you said 'shit'."

"Go ahead, and I'll tell him who took out his windshield with the magball."  Samantha pouted.

"But that was an accident!"

"Dad doesn't know that."

"You're such a bitch, Regina!"  Regina rolled her eyes.

"Love you too, sis."  Sammy saw the letter and snatched it off the table.

"What's this?!"

"Give that back!" Regina exclaimed.  "That's private!"  Sammy danced out of Regina's reach, reading quickly.  She stopped as she came to the end.

"They want you to be a superhero."

"There's no such thing as superheroes."  Sammy regarded her sister with wide eyes.

"Are you gonna?"  Regina shrugged.

"I don't know.  Why, do you think I could?"  Sammy frowned.

"I think you should." 

"Why?" said Regina.  "I'd probably get lots of fame and money and then you'd be jealous."

"Maybe you and Dad wouldn't fight so much if you did."  Regina heaved a sigh.

"Sammy, get a grip.  We'd fight _more_.  Dad hates that caped crusader crap."

"He's scared," said Sammy.  Her small hands were crumpling the letter into a ball.  "He's scared and you need to show him."  Regina softened, going over to her sister and putting her arms around her. 

"Relax, Sammy.  Dad's okay.  We're all okay."  Sammy sniffled a little, and Regina pretended not to notice.

"I've been having the dreams again."  Regina squeezed her sister.

"It's alright.  Nobody's going to hurt you."  Sammy looked up at her.

"You need to go.  If you go, I don't think I'll have as many nightmares."  Regina patted her sister's head.

"We'll see, okay?  And I really don't think that me putting on tights and a cape is going to make your nightmares go away."

"Why not?" said Sammy.

"Because," said Regina.  "Now go to bed.  If Mom hears you up she's gonna yell at us."  Sammy nodded and shuffled back upstairs in her slippers.  Regina watched her go, and then smoothed the crumpled letter. 

"Why not?" she muttered to herself, mimicking her sister.  _Because I still have nightmares too, Sammy.  And I don't know if this will make them better or worse._

---

**Gotham**

Stefan Freze was sitting on a stool watching his mother sleep when he heard a shuffling and saw a white envelope being pushed under the door of his lab.  He ran to the door and opened it, but saw no one. 

The envelope was marked with nothing except his name.  Stefan went back to his stool and opened it.  "I got a letter," he remarked to his mother.  She said nothing, her silent face immersed in the cryogenic liquid that kept her alive. 

Or at least would allow her to be brought back from the dead.  Stefan opened the envelope and scanned it quickly.  His first reaction was that it was a hoax, but then he realized that it must have been sent by the woman in the wheelchair.

So that was Barbara Gordon...  Stefan went to the glass of his mother's suspended animation tube and pressed the paper against it.  "What do you think?" he asked her.  She was silent.  "I know it's not exactly...usual... for our family, but they might give me a lab, a real one.  Then I could finish the cure.  For you and for father.  His work could be completed."  Stefan waited almost desperately.  The filter released some bubbles into his mother's tube, obscuring her face.  "Please," said Stefan.  "I have to.  I can't...I can't do it alone anymore."  He looked down, almost expecting rebuke.  There was only his mother's impassive face.  "Thank you," said Stefan softly.  He folded the letter carefully into his breast pocket and went back to his vigil.

---

 "Someone sent you a letter, babe," said Alex as he took off his leather jacket and tossed it on Mandy's bed.  Mandy looked at the envelope on the table.

"Who sends letters anymore?"  Alex shrugged. 

"Open it."  Mandy giggled, putting her arms around him.

"I'd rather open something else."  Alex disentangled himself gently.

"Your roommate is still awake."  Mandy waved a hand dismissively.

"Kara doesn't mind."  Alex went to Mandy's small refrigerator and took out a soda.

"Read your letter, Amanda."  Mandy pouted, but quickly tore open the letter.  She read and then frowned.  Alex came over and took it out of her hands, also reading.

"This is a joke, right?" said Mandy.  "I mean, who's Barbara Gordon?"  Alex's expression darkened for a minute, and then smoothed out into a smile.

"Has to be.  I know you're faster than a speeding bullet and all, Mandy, but superheroes?  Come on."  Mandy laughed. 

"Throw it out, will you, and come here."  She lay back on the bed, beckoning seductively.  Alex tossed the letter into the trash and joined her.

---

**Arkham Asylum**

There was a time when the visitor waiting room at Arkham had been full to capacity every day--with husbands, wives, girlfriends, siblings, but mostly with reporters eager to catch a glimpse of Two-Face, Poison Ivy, the Penguin or maybe even the notorious Joker. 

Only one of the famous inmates of Arkham still resided there, and Poison Ivy was old news.  She hadn't made an escape attempt in close to ten years.  Arkham was now just another place for the unwanted and unstable.  No reporters thronged, no grand escapes were made.  Batman no longer brought any criminals down the long hallway leading to the maximum security wing.

The only denizen of the waiting room today was a short blond woman, a little old around the eyes, with a little of the blond maybe coming from a bottle, but still attractive and youthful enough to draw the guard's eye.  She smiled at him and waved a little.  He smiled back.

Another orderly opened the heavy steel door that lead to the visiting area and whispered to him.  The guard motioned.  "You can go in, Ms. Quinzel."  She stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder.  The guard looked her up and down as she went through the door, and thought to himself that it really wasn't fair a woman his wife's age could still have a body like that.  A woman who wasn't his wife, anyway. 

The visiting area was divided into locked cubicles, one side in the asylum and one side for the visitors.  Bullet and acid-proof glass separated them.  There was only one occupied cubicle, and the blond woman plunked herself down in the plastic chair opposite a sullen, purple-haired teenager.

"I should kill you with my own bare hands!"  The girl rolled her eyes.

"Gee, Mom, I love you too." 

"How do you think I feel, seeing my daughter paraded across the ten o'clock news like some kind of criminal?!"  The girl put her feet on the small counter top on her side of the glass, looking  incredibly bored.

"Mom, I _am_ a criminal." 

"You watch your attitude, Cally!  I'm still your mother!"  Cally Quinzel, formerly the bomb-maker known as Marionette, sighed.

"Okay, whatever.  Assert your parental authority if it makes you feel better about yourself."  Harleen Quinzel, formerly the costumed criminal known as Harley Quinn, bristled.

"Do you know what your father would say if he could see you like this?!"  Cally smiled a little.

"'Good job, kid—now let's get in some real quality time by making more bombs and blowing this shithole city off the map?'"  If Harleen could have reached through the glass and slapped Cally silly, she would have.  Instead, she settled for glaring.  Cally was unimpressed.  Harleen's lip quivered.

"I try so hard," she said, dropping her head into her hands.  "And this is how you repay me!  You're an ungrateful child!  After everything I've done for you…"

"Oh for the love of…guard!" Cally shouted.  "Will you please get this crazy woman away from me?!"  A guard appeared on her side of the glass.

"Are we having a problem, Miss Quinzel?" 

"No, but I think she is," said Cally, pointing at Harleen and making the 'crazy' signal with her index finger.  "She's having the delusion she was actually a decent mother to me at some point in my life." 

"Ma'am, time's up," said the guard.  Harleen continued to sob. 

"Enjoy wallowing in self-pity, Mommy!" Cally chirped before being led back to her cell.  She whistled the theme from _Cabaret_ as she walked.  Harleen waited until she was out of sight, and then pulled herself together and walked back to the exit.  There was a time when she would have seduced the guard, stolen his passkey, and gotten her loved one locked inside the hell out of there.

But that time wasn't now.  Harleen fished in her purse for a tissue but couldn't find one.  "Are you alright?" said the door guard, handing her his handkerchief. 

"Sure," said Harleen.  "Just...emotional, y'know?"  He nodded.

"You're Harleen Quinzel, right?" he said.  "I was a junior orderly here...ah...before." 

"I see," said Harleen. 

"I remember your escape with, uh..."

"The Joker?" supplied Harleen snappishly.  He nodded.

"So the girl in there, she's your daughter?  I mean, the both of yours?  Because excuse me for saying so, ma'am, but that's a little strange."  Harleen had the sudden urge to reach for her cork gun, or even a rubber chicken with a good heavy brick inside, and wipe the smirk off the rent-a-cop's face.  Instead she just raised her chin and didn't give the creep the satisfaction of seeing her start to cry again as she left the waiting room.

---

A/N: Sooo…who's your favorite character so far?  Going for the OCs or sticking with the old standards?  Let me know!  I want to know who's popular and who you can't stand.  Sorta like _American Idol_, only less singing.  And everyone wears tights.  Just leave a review, okay?


End file.
